I remember, once upon a time, a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, having a conversation with a cow-orker about art. We were in a bullpen-style office, during a break, and talking about buying artworks, where to find affordable paintings, if affordable, original art was worth the cost for poor workin’ stiffs like us or if we were better off with prints or reproductions… that sort of thing.
All of a sudden, a voice broke in. It was from another worker, one that we never thought would be interested in the subject. He was a good guy, bright enough, but not from the city. You can take the boy out of the backwoods, but you can’t take the backwoods out of the boy. His voice was slightly garbled from the giant chaw of tobacco he had stuck in his lower lip.
He said, “Oh, I just bought an original painting, myself.”
We were a little stunned at this admission. After a few seconds, I regained my composure and asked, “Oh, what did you buy?”
He said, “A painting of a well muscled Aztec warrior on black velvet.”
Not that I have anything against black velvet paintings, but at that time I didn’t really consider them art.
In the intervening decades between who I was then and who I am now… I have changed my mind.